


Recovery 2

by mainemeta



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Post-Season 17, and he's alive and well on chorus, maine lives, this is vaguely canon-compliant i guess depending on your view of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainemeta/pseuds/mainemeta
Summary: Going to speech therapy seemed like a pointless endeavour, but some time after the civil war ended, a close friend finally convinces Maine to venture into civilisation to attend one such session.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

The hospitals at Chorus had improved dramatically in the last year or so since the end of the civil war, and the extra support and resources coming from off planet were almost certainly the cause of this. Now, not only were medicines and vaccinations once again available for the planet’s denizens in proper quantities, but there were countless support groups and services cropping up to help those affected (which was everyone, really) learn to cope.

Maine, after spending the last few years with his own personal baggage watching the planet destroy itself from the inside, had been finally convinced by a friend of sorts to attend one such group.

~

_ “General Doyle General Hospital.” They’d said, sliding a small scrap of paper across the table towards Maine, who merely grunted in response and raised an eyebrow. Nothing about that name brought him any sense of security or faith, and really, he’d found the whole notion rather ridiculous. Didn’t need therapy. Talking never did him any good, not even when it was an option. _

_ “They’ll have people who can speak sign.” A small, encouraging gesture towards the note accompanied the dismissive tone of the words, and they had leant back, taking a swig from the mostly-empty mug of coffee in their hands. “I’m sure you’re not the  _ only _ one who’s lost your voice in a war.” _

_ Maine had stared at the note, his eyes narrowing at the scrawled writing which detailed not just the location of the hospital in question, but also instructions on how to get there, including specific dates, times, and modes of transport. His gaze had snapped back up to the person opposite, eyes still narrowed. He knew what this meant; this wasn’t a suggestion anymore. _

_ They had smiled not unkindly, but certainly in a cocky, knowing sort of way. They finished their drink, then stood and left the room. _

_ ~ _

The travel was, for the most part, uneventful. He kept to himself, trying not to let the unwanted attention from passers by get to him too much (which was, for Maine, rather easy). People crossed streets to avoid him, stared at him, whispered amongst themselves and behind his back in mixed reactions of fear and  _ occasional _ admiration as he passed. He’s sure he even saw a small group of about five young soldiers leave the transport bus before they’d even found seats at the mere sight of him.

Maine understood it all, to an extent: someone of his size and stature (nearing 7ft and built like a bulldozer) wasn’t exactly a  _ normal _ sight amongst the still-recovering population of Chorus, many of which barely reached his chest in height. That, the stark-white mohawk, and the scarred up appearance of his already less than friendly face gave him quite the intimidation factor, especially to the younger residents. He’s not sure if leaving his armour at home was a wise decision or not.

General Doyle General Hospital itself was no better. If anything, it was far worse merely due to what it was: a hospital. He now had the discomfort of being surrounded by the staff and technicians, and the stench of disinfectant and sterilizer did little to calm his nerves. He was far too tense, he knew that much, and so, apparently, did just about everyone else. They gave him plenty of distance as he sat near the edge of the waiting room for his appointment time to come up. Good thing he’d brought a datapad with him, because he had quite a wait.

\---

A hushed set of voices far closer than he expected dragged his attention away from the game on his datapad. His eyes flicked up briefly to get a general idea of who and where the sound was coming from before scanning the room nonchalantly for a moment, then returning to the screen in an effort to not be too obvious. There were two women, sitting only five or six feet away to his left, leaning close with all the body language of gossiping rookies in the mess hall. 

_ That’s _ not what gets him to take a second look.

The flash of colours on the opposite side of the waiting area, now moving out of sight down one of the corridors makes him take another, longer look. Recognition hits him like a brick, and there’s an almost instantaneous bubble of frustration and anger which wells up from somewhere deep in his stomach, escaping him in a hushed, but still very present growl.  _ The Reds and Blues. _

He’d seen the news when it happened. Who  _ hadn’t _ ? Everyone praised and revered them for their work exposing and then taking down Charon. Even Maine himself had drunk cheers to their name in celebration. The service was undoubtedly one of great importance and benefit to the planet of Chorus, and many continued to celebrate them in the months which followed, even after they disappeared.

Then the attacks started.

Countless assaults across multiple UNSC-controlled outposts and settlements; the theft of power generators, attacked and ultimately shut off, resulting in far more casualties than anyone needed so soon after everything; ambushes on UNSC supply vessels; and then towards the end, the bombing on the supply depot. It was safe to say that the Reds and Blues had the capacity for great impact, but this was not what Chorus needed at this time.

They were considered heroes, figureheads of Chorus' fight for its independence following the great civil war, and so these targeted attacks were typically considered as a huge 'Fuck You' towards the UNSC; something embraced by many, however those still weary from the war who wished for a more peaceful, diplomatic conclusion things this time around were left feeling uncertain yet again.

There'd been a local article published a few days ago supposedly clearing their names. Something to do with an imposter group left over from the now infamous Project Freelancer being responsible. Maine knew well enough of the simulation outposts, as foggy as his memories were, but it still sounded like a load of media drivel. An excuse to save face so they weren't cast out, and it seemed to be working well enough.

The small horde of young soldiers follows after them down the corridor, making a horrific sort of hiccuping sound (maybe it was giggling?) as they run back out a few moments later and huddle together near the corner.

"Do you think he'll give us an autograph if we ask nicely?" 

Maine was trying his best not to listen. He didn't care. He didn't want to think about them being here, but they were very loud.

" _ Ohh _ , I want Captain Tucker to sign my armour with his energy sword!" 

Disgusting. He'd rather hoped that glorified lighter had been lost by now. 

"Wait-- wait no, do you think he'd give me, like, a tattoo with it or something?"

Maine can't help the look of disdain as he prods idly at his datapad, watching the coloured balls on the screen cascade.

"Jess, no way, that's stupid. But you know," The kids voice takes on a tone Maine isn't awfully keen on. "You might be able to--"

Enough, Maine thinks as he stands up rather suddenly, huffing a sigh and straightening his jumper. The group of kids glance over to him and freeze, staring like caught prey before hobbling off to wherever it is they should be (or at least, somewhere that isn't  _ there _ ). It was time for his appointment anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

He's lost far quicker than he'd expected to be, vaguely following signs which seemed like they might be relevant, or at least get him in the right direction. It's not long before he's thoroughly and completely distracted though by a garish assortment of coloured armour, all huddled by an observation window. He hesitates only for a second in the intersection, then continues straight ahead.

"Yeah 'course he will be, Caboose. Wash's survived _way_ worse than this."

The obvious nervousness and doubt in the voice does a good job of stopping Maine dead in his tracks, even if the words themselves hadn't. 

Maine might be dumb, but he's far from stupid. If Washington was injured enough to be in a hospital, then that would more than explain the need for the news clearing the simulation troopers' names: they needed to use the resources here on Chorus without having pitchforks from the entire population at their throat.

That does little to answer the main question now at the forefront of his mind though: how did _Agent Washington_ get bad enough to need a _hospital_?

Granted that he still hasn’t recovered much of his memories, no matter how hard Maine tries, he can't actually remember more than perhaps four times Wash ever ended up needing medical attention, and three of those were by Maine's hand (although he still denies them being his _fault_ ).

He hovers near the corner, keeping his good ear towards the corridor they were at the other end of.

They were bickering about something. Blame was being thrown, childish insults and all, and it became clear enough to Maine that they were more concerned with their petty internal rivalries than Wash.

The thought definitely crosses his mind that perhaps _this_ is what happened. He'd vaguely assumed that Washington had continued to associate with the simulation troopers after sidewinder, an assumption that was loosely confirmed through what little word of mouth he'd gathered during the climax of the civil war. Perhaps, then, Washington had become injured during one of their terrorist attacks, either by an UNSC defender or, given the current bickering, one of their own troops.

"Enough." Maine knew that voice, and he knew the blossom of frustration that word in that tone brought him far better than he had any right to. He can't shake the feeling though that for some reason, the fact that he's hearing it again makes him very… _uneasy._ "If you are just going to stand around and argue like _children_ , go elsewhere to do it. ... _Please_."

A moment of silence follows, then the sheepish shuffling and muttering of fresh rookies being shouted at for the first time as they make their way down the corridor (unfortunately) towards Maine's corner.

It's at this moment - as Maine does his best to appear entirely focused on his datapad, aiming for 'confused/trying to read directions' - that it occurs to him that none of the simulation troopers ever saw him without his armour, and he strongly doubted they’d ever cared enough to look up his file (assuming it hadn’t been completely erased), so they have little reason to be cautious of him aside from his general size. Leaving the armour at home was _definitely_ a wise decision.

They file past him down the corridor, their discomfort and unease clear to even Maine. As he glances at their retreating forms, Doc - just about the only one he ever learned the name of - catches his eye. 

The purple sim trooper had been _staring_ , hadn’t he?

Maine narrows his eyes, his instinct to challenge such boldness kicking in before any sense of reason. It works, evidently, as Doc continues after the rest of the troopers, trotting a couple of steps to catch up. Not that any of them noticed he was lagging behind.

“Agent Washington will recover.” A voice Maine didn’t know. It seemed filtered, although not by much, and the pitch was far deeper than anyone he remembered. “You need to rest as well.”

“...Right.” The same person from before-- _Carolina?_ Since when did she ever defer to someone else’s suggestions? Then again, he’s pretty sure she should also be _dead_ , but her presence would explain a few of the other rumours that had been floating around. Perhaps her dance with the other side softened her a little, made her more… _reasonable_ , if the way she not only didn’t immediately fight back against the suggestion, but also seemed to _comply_ as the footsteps retreating the other way was anything to go by.

She’s clearly changed.

So has Maine, but for different reasons.

He worries for how the years have impacted Washington.

A minute of silence passes before Maine peeks around the corner. The corridor is empty now aside from a low bench opposite a large observation window that offers a view into a plain room, which judging from the label on the door just past the window, is likely “RECOVERY 2”.

Upon closer inspection, as Maine rounds the corner and carefully approaches the window, the room is outfitted with very little by way of furniture: a single chair sits empty next to the bed, which is kitted with various monitoring and life support equipment. Plain sheets cover the still body, arms draped over the top of the covers, and pillows stacked to raise their head just slightly. Enough for Maine to see the messy bleached hair and freckled cheeks.

His breath catches in his throat.

Maine isn’t sure how long it’s been since he last saw David. Washington was always incredibly guarded during the times Maine remembered of after they were arrested, never allowing himself to be caught without every piece of his armour on; he’d even slept in it, and so Maine was never entirely sure if the ex-freelancer _ever_ took it off during those times.

The difference between his memory of David and the man laying unconscious in the bed on the other side of the glass was… jarring. Grey hairs in the undercut threatened to give Maine’s own white stripe a run for its money, and the deep bruising of sleep deprivation sitting under his eyes reminded Maine of the man he saw in the mirror back in prison. Gone was the bright-eyed, freckled young man with enough optimistic energy to exhaust the older agents just from sheer _exposure_.

None of that explains how he’s ended up here, hooked up on life support with bandages around his throat--

 _“C’mon buddy, hang in there.”_

The sound of Washington’s voice bubbles up through the general ambient noise in his mind, along with memories of bright lights, blurred movement, and an overwhelming phantom pain throbbing in the scar tissue of his throat. His hand moves up to ghost over the gnarled mess, his eyes not leaving the faint pink tinge to Washington’s bandages.

His mind races with the implications of this. Evidently this wasn’t as bad as the injury Maine had suffered all those years ago - he doubts any human, not even one as tenacious and versatile as Washington, could survive that - but that hardly meant there wouldn’t be consequences. There was bound to be long lasting effects due to the blood loss, surely, not to mention changes to diet, speech--

Would Washington even still be able to talk?

He doubts Carolina ever picked up sign language; she refused to do so when Maine had his initial injury, as did most of the other agents, and it’s not as if he’s been in their lives to prompt any change to that situation.

This still all begs the question though: how could something like this have been allowed to _happen_ ? He knows Washington has always been a perfectly capable soldier, more than able to carry his own weight - and that of his comrades - through a fight without too much consequence. And yet, with presumably the bare minimum of _eight_ other allied soldiers around, they weren’t able to cover him? It’s unclear to Maine from the evidence he can see if this was the result of a close-range injury or a sniper shot, but either way, there was no excuse.

A low growl rumbles deep in his chest. Eight soldiers, one of which was presumably _Carolina_ , not that he trusts her to look out for anyone other than herself, that is.

Eight soldiers.

The amount of shots Maine _remembers_ taking for Washington alone--

Pitiful.

The sound of footsteps reminds him he can’t linger for long. Can’t risk Carolina coming back and finding him here: he’s in no condition to face the inevitable fight that would break out, and so with one final look and a soft, gentle rumble, Maine leaves the window, resuming finding his way to where he was _actually_ supposed to be quarter of an hour ago.

\---

“This isn’t a small claim to be making, Locus. Are you _certain_?”

“I would not lie to you, Agent Carolina.” Locus stood in the doorway to the small recovery suite, Carolina sat unarmoured with her legs off the side of the bed, the book she’d been reading set down on the bedside table. She stares at him from her perch, the doubt on her face more than evident. “Besides, his appearance is undeniably… unique.”

“Well? Did he do anything?”

“Negative.”

Looking through a window hardly counted as ‘doing something’, and unless Carolina wanted to hear a recount of The Meta’s journey to the SALT department of the hospital, there was nothing else worthy of reporting. 

He waits for Carolina’s response, watching as she studies his visor.

“Right. Thank you.” She looks to the floor, her hands balling up into fists on her knees. “You can leave now.”


End file.
